


one way to go

by softsocky



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, M/M, Swearing, rocky is a pilot and sanha is a nervous passenger, wth even is this rubbish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 08:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13003326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsocky/pseuds/softsocky
Summary: Sanha hadn’t realised how much he liked a man in uniformSOMEONE DREW FAN ART FOR THIS IM GONNA CRY ITS SO CUTE PLEASE LOOK AT ITHERE OMG ITS SO CUTE PEALSE





	one way to go

**Author's Note:**

> i hate myself  
> title from skouts 'good things'. its so good. listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypIacem4weo)  
> inspired by the recent meet photos with rocky looking SO GOOD in his uniform

Sanha wanted to think he was _ready_. He had been preparing himself mentally for this day since the moment he landed in America a year ago – because if he got here, it meant he’d have to leave again, too. America wasn’t _home_ , see – South Korea was, Seoul to be exact. He’d been born there, lived there, and was hypnotised by a guest-speaker to spend his final year of university abroad on an exchange. He had by no means regretted the decision, it was just that he had never been on a plane before, and the entire concept of being that far off the group _terrified_ him.

The flight over had confirmed those suspicions.

There was turbulence, and Sanha had seen enough airplane investigation documentaries to know that sometimes turbulence was just a cover for something much worse. It was choppy and bouncy and had Sanha not been gripping the armrests and thinking about a slow, painful death from this great height, he would have thrown up. There was no time for that, though, because between eating and turbulence and hyperventilating in the tiny bathroom, there was hardly any leeway for regurgitation.

And now he had to do it all over again.

Except this time, it felt harder – because he had to say goodbye to his host family and his friends in a crowded airport, and his English still wasn’t fantastic so he got lost and he was always a crier, so there he _stood,_ weeping and shaking and trying to find the nearest bathroom. It was all in his head to some extent – the chances of him actually dying in a plane accident was very unlikely, next to nothing, really. But the phobia was still there, still wedged itself in-between his logic and his sanity, and caused all the problems he was having now.

He had already checked in his bags and cleared customs, so all that was left for him to do was wait out the hour till boarding. He assumed for those who did this regularly, that was nothing, and they spent that hour presumably bored and looking at their watches every five minutes. For Sanha, though, it felt decades long, and he couldn’t decide if this was a good or a bad thing. The longer time stretched out, the longer he had to think about it; but the faster, the sooner he was on the plane, living out his nightmare.

He found a bathroom block in the far back corner of the departures lounge, and he slipped in past the cleaner and locked himself in the first available stall. He closed the lid, and sat himself down on it ignoring the small groan of protest from the plastic. He decided not to look at the floor, knowing it would most likely make his nausea worse, so he focused on the back of the stall door. It was grey with specks of white, a pattern he’d seen in nearly every public toilet during his time in the States. Of all the places in the U.S he could have ended up, he was fortunate enough to end up in New York City, somewhere he’d seen on all the movies. Outside of his terror for planes, and underneath all the queasiness, there _had_ been excitement there. And there was excitement there now, too, because going back to Seoul meant he’d get to see his parents and friends again. He just wished there was an easier way to get there, and while he sat on the toilet, listening to the uncomfortable sounds one heard in public toilers, brewed in with shuffling feet and zippers, Sanha contemplated the existence of teleportation.

He was unsure how long he actually sat there, but it must have been quite some time, because over the intercom they altered five minutes till boarding for his flight. He groaned, heaved himself up to his feet, and swung open the stall door with his backpack over one shoulder. The bathroom was large, now that he had the time to look at it, but it was remarkably empty. From what he could see, only one other stall was in use. Sanha found it weird he noticed that, considering it was a _toilet_ , so he went about washing his hands before he dared looking at himself in the mirror.

He knew he was going to look a mess. Even if he wasn’t afraid of flying, he’d look bad. He’d been crying – of course he had – as he said goodbye to his host family, and now his eyes were going to be as red and as puffy as his cheeks surely were. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that yes, he did look like crap.

He groaned again, louder this time, not caring if the other occupant thought him crazy. He splashed water on his face, hoping to cool himself down, to calm the rattle in his bones. But it was no use. The cool temperature of the water felt nice, but it didn’t offer any sweet relief from his anxiety.

He realised that there was no escaping this now, and he had to leave and get on the bloody plane, and face his fear. People would say that that was exactly how you got over your fears, but Sanha begs to differ. If you’re not ready, it just makes you _more_ scared. That was going to be Sanha.

The one occupied stall opened and a young man shorter than him walked out and _Christ,_ were all pilots this _hot_?

Sanha’s mouth felt dry and stale, and he could feel himself staring and he was desperately trying to will his mind to kick-start itself again, because this was _creepy._ His mouth was ajar, and he was probably going to start drooling soon. The man made up for what he lacked in height with strength, his muscular silhouette evident even underneath his uniform. Speaking of which, Sanha hadn’t realised how much he liked a man in uniform – especially _this_ uniform. It was navy and perfectly fitted, and the man was holding the cap under his arm and a briefcase in the other, and his hair was pushed back in some kind of gel-free quiff and _Sanha was going to have a heart attack._

He’d seen hot guys before – shit, had he seen them. They were everywhere in New York, hell, everywhere in Seoul too. His best friends, Bin and MJ, happened to be some of them. But _wow,_ this man took hot to a whole new level. His skin was deliciously smooth and clear, and Sanha just wanted to run his hands through the makeshift quiff, and maybe even, as cheekily as it seemed, run a finger across the man’s enviously plump limps.

All of this was so damn _creepy_ , and shit, the man in question was looking at him now, one eyebrow quirked up in curiosity.

Sanha had to say something. It was only polite. He was standing in an airport bathroom with a wet face and staring at the hottest man alive, who could, apparently, also raise one eyebrow.

“Um,” Sanha managed, but it wasn’t enough, clearly. The man lifted his other eyebrow now, both of them nestled up near his hairline. This was ridiculous, where was his tongue?

Sanha watched the man look down at his hands – shaking – and his face – wet – and his hair – messy – and must have found something there that made him understand, because he softened right before his eyes. The intimidating eyebrows dropped back down, the tenseness in his arms loosened and he placed his briefcase on the driest patch of counter beside the sinks. Sanha watched, as always, wordlessly.

“You’re scared of planes, aren’t you?”

 _Goddamn._ His voice was like _honey_ – it was sort of high, higher than Sanha’s, as though it still retained some of its childish twang, but then it was deep, too, tantalizingly, and it reminded him of a movie star he’d watched lately. It was nice, actually, to hear a familiar accent after spending so much time around American ones. He wasn’t sure if he lived in South Korea still, but Sanha would recognise that accent anywhere.

Sanha jolted himself, remembering that the beautiful man had asked him a question. He had no words still, but he was able to find the strength to nod. The pilot smirked, before unlocking his briefcase with practiced ease, and Sanha could help but stare at his fingers. His train of thought went south a little too quickly, so he dragged his eyes away and prayed that his body controlled itself for once.

When the pilot turned back to him, he had a zip-lock bag in his hand, and a brown paper bag in the other. Sanha looked from his eyes, down to the pilot’s hands, and then back up.

The pilot sighed heavily, pushing them at Sanha who realised this was his cue to be a human again, and he hastily took the bags from him. “What?” He heard himself say; he heard it, but he didn’t feel the vibrations of it in his throat, didn’t’ feel his tongue move. He was too distracted by the fact the pilot had just licked his damn lips. The _disrespect._

“The brown bag has herbal tea in it. Calms nerves. The zip lock are hard-boiled lollies, helps with the nausea and sore ears.”

It was that voice again, and Sanha had to swim through it a little to understand what was being said to him.

“Hold up.” Sanha furrowed his brows, unsure if what he had gathered from that statement made any sense. “Why would you need tea for nerves?” Sanha took a step back, then forwards again, uncertain where to put his feet with this new piece of information.

“ _You’re_ scared of planes?” Sanha asked, copying the man’s earlier question.

 The pilot snorted, “no, of course not. I used to be. But I do sometimes get a bit nauseous, and the tea can also help with that,” he looks at Sanha now, but not just at his face, as his body too. Sanha’s face catches fire. _Christ almighty, kill me now, the hot guy just checked me out._

“Um,” Sanha squeaked.

The pilot ignored it. “You look like you need it.”

With that, he was locking up his briefcase, and by the time Sanha realised he may have just insulted him, he was already gone.

 

Sanha pushed his way down the aisle, clutching at the strap of his backpack as if it would save him if the plane were to go down. If it wouldn’t draw any attention to himself, he would have kneed himself in the face – both because then he’d be unconscious and this whole mess would be over, and because the plane hadn’t even taken off yet, so falling wasn’t even an _option_. He was in a weird mood, too, the departing words of the pilot making him feel small and pathetic, younger than he was and not like a university graduate.

He pushed past the curtain and into the economy class, where a flight attendant stood directing passengers. He smiled comically wide at Sanha, and he’d have cringed had it not been so pretty. Sanha read his nametag, _Dongmin_ , and he made a mental note to tell Bin about him – he was just his type. Not that it mattered, considering he was about to die on this plane, but the thought was what counted, after all.

“Good afternoon! Welcome aboard – let me just check your seat…” he trailed off as he read his name, “Mr Yoon. Keep heading down, it’s on your right.”

Sanha nodded in thanks, before pushing past the gorgeous flight attendant, and past another one called _Jinwoo_ – and what the hell _was_ this plane, even – who handed him a hot towel and a pair of socks.

He was squished in between an old woman who was already sleeping, and a kid who looked about thirteen and more scared than he was. He assumed it was because he had to sit with adults, and Sanha was going to tell him to not be afraid, but then that was both a little hypocritical _and_ super creepy, so he kept his mouth shut.

He dragged out his phone and headphones, pushed them in the pocket on the seat in front of him, before shoving the bag underneath the seat. He leant back, eyes closed, and tried to steady his breathing. He dug his hands into his pockets, where the tea and lollies were, contemplating if he should even use them. For all he knows, the man could have just been dressed up as a pilot, and was actually smuggling him drugs. But then the engine suddenly got louder and the whirring in the cabin was frightfully loud, too, and he had never unwrapped a lolly so fast in his life. He’d have to wait a little longer for the tea, unfortunately, but this would do for now. It gave him something aside from the noises and the fear of death to focus on.

He shut his eyes again, willing for everything to just _stop_ and _go away_ and for it to all be over, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and a gentle _ahem._

He snapped his head to the flight attendant from before – Dongmin – who was holding a tray in his hand with hot water and a paper cup. Dongmin was smiling again, too, and he’d have smiled back if he wasn’t this close to projective vomiting.

“Our pilot told me to get this to you before the plane takes off.” Dongmin ignored Sanha’s expression – confusion, bewilderment, amazement – and handed him the cup. “He said to use the tea.” Dongmin gave him a knowing smirk when he felt for the bag in his pocket, and then a look of something else, something he couldn’t really place, before he turned and left down the aisle for take-off.

Sanha grumbled as he drunk the herbal tea, because not only did the pilot somehow know his name, but he was able to voice this to the bloody flight attendants, too, because every time they walked past during the flight, they gave him cheekily smiles and asked if he needed anything. The kid beside him was starting to get suspicious Maybe he thought Sanha was famous. Sanha was starting to think that maybe he was.

 

Halfway through the flight, Sanha jerked away – he hadn’t realised he’d even fallen asleep – to the sound of the intercom crackling. And then—

“Hello everyone, it’s your pilot speaking—” Sanha knew that voice. Sanha thinks he could have a wet dream about that voice. “—Mr Park. I hope you’re enjoying your flight so far, I’m sure our lovely attendants are catering to your needs—” Sanha didn’t listen to the rest of what he had to say, because he was _annoyed._ The pilot – _Mr Park_ – was cheeky and clever and kind of a stalker, and it was a teeny tiny bit of a turn on. Sanha was creeping himself out now, and he hated himself for it. He gave an update on Seoul’s weather, something about the flight duration and weather pattern they were experiencing – which was relatively calm, apparently – and he bid his farewells to the passengers, until then—

Then he spoke again, but this time it wasn’t quite so professional, but laced with a foreign silliness he was very sure pilots didn’t share with their passengers often. Sanha could barely register the words as they left the pilot’s mouth over the speakers, much like it had been in the bathroom. It took him a few minutes to gather his thoughts, especially with how everyone around him turned in their seats to smirk at him. Sanha literally had never wanted to die as much as he did right now.

“And just before I go. To the lovely Mr _Yoon_ in seat 39B – I’m going to make it as smooth of a ride for you as I can.”

The boy beside him paused the video on his laptop, turned to him. “Are you having an existential crisis?” He must have seen Sanha’s gaping mouth, his soulless eyes. Smart kid. Or observant, he wasn’t sure.

Sanha turned to look down at him. “Probably.” The boy was watching High School Musical. Looked like he was having one of his own.

 

 

An hour later, and Dongmin returned, this time with Jinwoo in tow. Sanha had literally had enough, because now Jinwoo was wearing glasses and it was unfairly cute, and all Sanha wanted to do was _sleep_ but all the odds were against him. The tea had, however, calmed all his nausea – though there was still several hours of his flight left, and he had used all the bags up.

Dongmin was biting his lip apologetically, and Sanha narrowed his eyes at him. Something was wrong.

Jinwoo handed Dongmin a brown bag – identical to the one Mr Park had given him in the bathroom. “You might be needing these,” Dongmin said, before pushing Jinwoo away from him.

Sanha managed a “wait, what—” but they had already disappeared down the aisle. He was about to get up and follow them, but the intercom cackled again.

“So,” _ugh._ “Your pilot, Mr Park, here again. Just a quick message to let you know we’re going to be experiencing a bit of turbulence up ahead. I’ve switched the seatbelt sign back on for your safety.” Sanha was going to suffocate himself with his own jacket. “Seat 39B, Mr Yoon,” Sanha flicked his eyes upward, at the speaker, heart hammering. “I swear, I’m not normally a liar. Forgive me?”

This time, when the turbulence hit, the tea didn’t help. The entire time he emptied his stomach into the paper bag from the seat in front, he imagined it was Mr Park’s face. It helped. Sort of.

 

They had _landed_ , and Sanha was somehow still alive despite his legs feeling like jelly under the weight of his body. He dragged himself up the skyway, through the bridge and to baggage control. He shuffled around with his suitcases, passed through the declaration point, and out into freedom. He was exhausted, sleeping very little on the plane, and surprisingly hungry, too. It was busy – airports were always busy – but this seemed a little ridiculous. He was searching for his parents in the crowd, and for not the first time in his life, he was thankful that his height allowed him to see over people. He spotted them then, in the back corner, waving their hands frantically at him. He was just about to head their way when he heard his name being yelled, but from the other direction.

“ _Yoon Sanha_!”

He snapped his head around, and couldn’t stop the groan of disgust. _Mr Park._ He was still in his uniform, hat on his head now, too, and God. He was so hot. Sanha was going to die. He was such a _dick_ but he was unbearably attractive too, and Sanha couldn’t keep up with his emotions right now. He wanted to see his family, but at the same time, it wasn’t every day that hot pilots yelled out to you and ran across the arrivals lounge to catch you.

The shorter man stopped in front of Sanha, eyes settled on his face. Then he licked his lips, and bit his tongue, and Sanha just grunted at him. Mr Park smirked, and then lifted a white piece of card in front of his face.

“Thought you might want to keep it, you know. Proof that you did it, faced your fears.”

It was his plane ticket. He must have dropped it somewhere along the way. Suddenly, Sanha felt silly. Mr Park had run across the airport to give it to him, eluding this strange sense of pride for the strange for having accomplished what he had. He took the ticket gingerly.

Sanha blushed, tucking his chin. “thanks Mr Park.” He held the ticket up in thanks, ignoring the flutter in his stomach.

He went to turn, saying a mental goodbye to the most attractive man on earth, but said man said one last thing. “If we ever meet again, make sure to call me Minhyuk.”

Sanha bit his lip through his smile, before he scurried away to the sound of his parents’ yelling.

 

It wasn’t until a week later, when Sanha had finally resigned himself to the idea of unpacking from his trip, that he found it again. The plane ticket Mr Park – _Minhyuk_ – had chased after him to return. The pilot was sentimental, it seemed, and Sanha wondered what his plane ticket collection looked like. Sanha reached for the box on his windowsill, the one he kept for special memories and photos, and sat it on the floor beside him. He opened the lip, smiling fondly at the few memories he saw on top. Taking the ticket, he folded it, placed it down in the box and then—

He stopped.

There was writing on the back of his ticket. A messy, hurried scrawl in blue pen, that customs had definitely not put there. He quickly unfolded it, not believing his eyes. He read it over and over, until he could no longer separate the letters into words, and the whole thing just became a blurry smudge in front of his eyes. he had started to laugh. It began as a giggle but now a full-blown cackle, eyes squeezed shut and ticket scrunching up in his fist. He lay back on his floor, amongst the mess of tacky souvenirs and dirty clothes, and laughed until he could no more.

 

Years later, when it came up again, Sanha would say that the phone number scribbled on the back of his plane ticket maybe wasn’t the best place to put it, especially because it was so obvious he was clumsy and not thinking straight, and was bound to lose it.

The man opposite him would just shrug, take another long sip of his coffee, before smiling over at him. He’d mumble a fond little _I love you Sanha_ over the lip of the mug, eyes wide and soft as he stared.

Sanha would just gag, stutter out a “you’re so _gross_ , Mr Park,” which Minhyuk would reply to with an “ _It’s Mr Yoon now, thank you very much”_ before leaning across the table to kiss his husband.

**Author's Note:**

> [softsocky on tumblr yo hmu](http://softsocky.tumblr.com/)


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